I'm Cold
by Slightly2Loud
Summary: Italy turns up at Germany's door one night, freezing cold and wet from the storm outside. Germany can't think of what to do with the shivering nation, but he knows one thing; he has to get him warm. But for some reason, Italy looks so much more gorgeous dripping wet and cold...


**YES! Oh, wait, protocol: Ciao!**

**I'M FINALLY BACK INTO FANFICTIONING! WHOOPEE! *throws confetti in air excitedly***

**This is the closest I've ever got to a 'M' rated story. I'm still too much of a chicken to write one, though. I got this idea when I cycled the whole way to my cousin's house in the rain. Ever felt Irish rain? Yeah. It's hard as hell. I cycled up the lane and almost beat down the door, and then he came to the door and brought me inside. And, as with all moments of my life, I stopped and went: fanfic? And this was produced. Hope you like!**

**x Rachel**

* * *

The rain poured down that night, but it didn't matter to Germany. He was snug inside his house in Berlin, reading a book and wondering what nonsense America would announce at the next world meeting. England had been interesting in the world meeting yesterday, though; who knew having a civil war in your country would make you start to strangle yourself?

The doorbell went, and Germany looked up. Who could be calling at this time of night? In this rain too?

The bell went again, and he stood up and walked to the door. Prussia. It was Prussia, definitely, probably back from some bar with France and Spain. He'd forgotten his key, the idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid bruder…

Germany flung open the door, scowling.

"Bruder, what-" He stopped.

Standing at the door, dripping wet and cold, was Italy. He was shivering, his arms wrapped around his frail body, to try to keep in the tiny bit of warmth he still had. Droplets of rainwater dripped off the end of his nose, and his hair was completely drenched and flat, apart from the one odd little curl. His clothes were completely soaked through.

"D-Doitsu," he stuttered, knees shaking.

Germany immediately lunged forward, grabbing Italy's wrists in his hands. He was ice cold. Germany pulled him inside, closing the door behind him and turning to face Italy.

"Italy, what are you doing here?"

Italy opened his mouth, but was shaking too hard to reply. _Towels, _Germany thought to himself. _He needs towels._

He ran to the cupboard and pulled out a stack of towels that were still warm from the radiator. He draped them over Italy, who smiled gratefully, still shivering uncontrollably. Germany wrapped the smaller nation in German-flag patterned towels, pulling them tightly, rubbing the boy's arms to keep him warm. Italy was too tired to walk anymore, so Germany picked him up and took him into the living room, sitting him down in the armchair next to the fireplace.

Italy smiled weakly again, turning to face the fire, stretching out his hands to try to warm up. Germany watched him in confusion. What was he doing here? Why had he gone out in that rain, at this time of night? The Italian's face was pale, and he coughed and spluttered, choking out a bit of water.

"I'm cold, Doitsu," he said sadly, displaying his usual childlike naivety. Germany smiled softly.

"Don't worry, it's warm in here," he reassured Italy. "What are you doing here?"

Italy smiled happily. "I came to visit Doitsu! Romano was… um, _busy _with Spain, and Miss Hungary was spying on Denmark and Norway, so I decided to come and see you! It started to rain a while ago, but I thought I could make it. I'm really cold though, Germany," he repeated, "Do you have any hot chocolate?"

Germany nodded, and stood up to go make some. He came back a little later with two steaming mugs of cocoa, one patterned black, red and yellow, the other black and white, with an emblem in the middle.

"I couldn't find my other cup, so you've got Prussia's. Is that okay?" Italy nodded, and took the cup with both of his hands, jumping a little at the sudden heat, and pouring a bit of the hot chocolate drink on his trousers. The action made Germany look at his trousers, and realise the state they were in.

"Italy, your clothes are ruined!" Germany exclaimed. The shirt and trousers were both drenched, with a chocolate-stained patch on his knee from the cocoa. There was mud all along the ends of his shoes as well. Italy looked down, shrugged, and turned his attention back to the wonderfully hot cocoa in his hands, taking a long gulp and sighing happily.

"Italy, you can't stay in those clothes," Germany said sternly. "You'll freeze to death!"

"Well," said Italy slowly, before brightening. "Let's have a bath together!"

Germany cringed. "Italy, be sensible," he said. "We're both fully grown men. We don't have baths together!"

"Aww, but _Doitsu_," pleaded the smaller nation. "It would be fun! You could wash my back, and I'd wash yours, and I'd warm up too! Please?" He batted those stunningly long eyelashes of his, and Germany gave in.

"…Fine."

About half an hour later, the bathtub was full of water and bubbles, and Italy jumped in, excited. Germany reluctantly took off his clothes and stepped in after Italy, who was watching him intently.

"Italy, don't stare," he whispered, and Italy looked away as Germany got in and sat down.

"Can I look now?" he asked.

"Ja, sure," replied Germany, and Italy turned around, scanning Germany over. Germany fidgeted a little, trying not to think about the fact that he was sitting in the bath, with Italy, both of them completely naked. If Prussia ever heard about this, he was screwed.

"Ve, Doitsu, you're really strong," breathed Italy, his eyes wide, and Germany felt even more exposed. "You have all those muscles! You're even stronger than Greece!"

Germany looked at him, confused. "How do you know about Greece?"

"Japan has a load of pictures of him in a box under his bed," explained Italy. "He got kinda mad when I asked him where he got them, but that was because Greece was there. Why does he have pictures of Greece, Doitsu?"

The Aryan laughed. "Never you mind, Italien," he chuckled.

"Germany, can you wash my back?" asked Italy, offering him some soap. Germany nodded, and Italy turned around so his back was to Germany. Germany began to rub the soap into the Italian's back, while his former ally giggled at the touch.

"Okay, there you go," he said when he'd finished.

"Your turn!" smiled Italy, taking the soap from Germany's hand. "Turn around!"

Germany immediately began to fidget. "Um, Italien," he said slowly. "I don't really… I'm okay without."

"No, come on!"

Germany hesitated, and turned around slowly, until Italy could see his back. The usually cheerful nation froze and gasped in horror.

"Oh, Doitsu," he said sadly. "What happened?"

All along Germany's back were lines, blood-red scars dividing the before untouched white skin into four sections. The scars were carefully drawn, as if someone had taken a pocket knife and drawn them out deliberately. In each section a letter was drawn, this time definitely on purpose. B. R. F. A.

"Britain, Russia, France, America," said Germany in a forced monotone. "The division. After the war. Russia cut it into me, while they watched."

The short manner in which he spoke about the lines made it obvious he didn't want to talk about them. The scars showed defeat, shame, division, anger. Italy watched the German with sympathetic eyes, before leaning forwards and planting a kiss inbetween the nation's shoulders, at the top of the centre line.

Germany looked over his shoulder, surprised, but Italy's smile quietened him.

"Shh," the Italian said, still smiling. "I'm kissing it better, ve?"

He leaned forward, and began to kiss down the centre line, that divided the British section and the Russian, sending shivers down Germany's spine. He kissed every part of the French border, finishing over at the American side. The feeling of his soft lips on Germany's back was one the Aryan could get used to; he only just managed to supress a moan. Eventually Italy pulled away, his smile calm and happy.

"Better?" he asked, and in some unexplainable way, it was.

"Ja," Germany replied. "Th-Thank you, Italien."

Italy grinned. "Come on, let's get out, ve?"

A little while later, Germany was dressed again, and Italy was clothed in one of Germany's huge shirts, and a pair of boxers. None of the other nation's trousers fitted him, but the top was huge enough to cover most of his legs, or at least to his knees.

"Germany?"

"Ja?"

"I'm still cold."

Germany frowned, and thought hard.

"Sport usually warms me up, but it's wet out, and you hate exercise anyway," he thought out loud.

"Ooh!" said Italy, brightening. "Do you want to dance?"

Germany looked over at his companion. "Dance?"

"Ve!" said Italy, excited now. "I think I left a CD here last time I came over! I'll go check the drawers for it!"

Sure enough, a few minutes later, he appeared with a CD in his hands. He slipped it into the player, and flicked through until he found a song.

"This one's by a German guy!" he exclaimed excitedly as the waltz played. Germany raised an eyebrow, recognising the tune, impressed.

"Bach?" he asked. "Well, alright. I can't waltz, though."

Italy laughed, as if this was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He stepped forwards, threading his fingers through Germany's and holding their enclosed hands out in front of his face.

"You put your hand on my waist," he instructed, and Germany obliged. "And I put my hand on your chest," he said, doing so. "And then you move like this, see, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three." He began to step, and Germany tried to copy him, and stop concentrating on how lovely Italy felt pressed up against him, how wonderful his slender hand felt in the taller's own. The hand Italy had rested on Germany's chest was making his heart do backflips. Backflips? More like 20 metre high trampoline stunts.

They moved slowly, silently, not saying anything. Words weren't needed. Italy's hair was still slightly damp from the bath, and when he rested his head against Germany's chest, the German felt the cold seep through his shirt. He jumped a little, and Italy took his head away and looked up.

"Ve? What's wrong, Doitsu?" he asked.

"Your hair is still soaking!" Germany exclaimed. "You have to dry it! You'll just get colder if you don't, Italien!"

He stopped the music, and led Italy over to Prussia's bedroom. Because France had such long hair, he liked to keep a hairdryer in Prussia's room, for if he came over and got wet. The albino liked to use it before dates with Canada, to mess up his silver hair, knowing Canada loved it like that.

"Sit down," he commanded, and Italy did so, shivering a little.

"I'm cold," he complained, and Germany switched on the hairdryer.

"This should warm you up," he said, beginning to dry the Italian's hair.

It was actually quite nice, Germany thought to himself, sitting behind a cross-legged Italy, running his fingers through the smaller man's auburn hair. Italy's hair was soft and smooth, and he ran his fingers through it, ruffling up the back. After a moment, his hand connected with the long, sensitive curl that sprang up from the top of Italy's head.

The Italian reacted immediately.

"Ooh," he moaned, shivering. "Mmm." Germany went red.

"I- I'm sorry, Veneziano," he stumbled.

"Don't worry," said Italy dreamily. "It was nice."

An idea appeared in Germany's mind as he said that, which he tried to dismiss. It was a bad idea, a wrong idea; but it would be interesting. Germany had never tried playing with the curl before. He knew what it did, the effect it had on its owner, but it was still a very tempting idea.

Oh, what the heck. Italy had put him through enough pain tonight already; it was payback time.

Germany kneeled down, switched off the hairdryer, and took the curl in his hand, studying it. Italy immediately sensed what he was going to do. His eyes widened.

"D-D-Doitsu," he stuttered nervously. "Please…"

The funny thing about the please was, though, that Germany couldn't tell if it was for him to stop or to continue. Regardless, he tightened his grip on the curl and pulled it, hard.

Italy moaned loudly, arching his back, still facing away from Germany. He was trying to stay put though; Germany heard him whisper "Go ahead. Try me."

He took the curl in both hands, stretching it out, before sticking out his tongue and licking it, all the way to the end. Italy yelped and groaned, but managed to anchor himself to the floor still. Germany was beginning to like this game.

"More?" he whispered seductively into Italy's ear, and the man just managed to nod. He wound the curl round his finger, just touching the end with his tongue.

"Ohhhh," moaned Italy in pleasure. "Pull it, please. Pull it."

Germany obliged, yanking the curl, once, twice, three times. The third cry was so loud it somehow managed to wake Germany up from his blissful, Italy-induced trance.

_What the hell am I doing? This is bad._

He let go of the curl, and Italy turned around, his face becoming less flushed by the moment.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, with a guilty smile on his face.

"No, that was my fault," said Germany, trying to be dignified. "I- I forgot myself. I'm very sorry."

Italy smiled, and stood up. "Let's get to bed, ve?"

Germany nodded, and the two walked up the stairs together, silent. Germany inwardly cursed himself; what was that about? That was a bad, stupid thing to do. He shouldn't have done it at all, even though one side of his mind wanted so badly to just reach out and grab the curl, and resume the ritual. No. Bad, bad, bad.

They reached the bedroom and Germany went for his side of the bed, reaching under the pillow and pulling out a tank top and boxers. He turned around to find Italy completely naked, sitting shivering.

"Germany, I'm cold," he mumbled.

Germany tried very hard to keep his eyes on Italy's amber ones, and not look any further down.

"Well, maybe you should put on some pyjamas," Germany suggested. "I think Prussia left a pair in here once, and he's less built than me. They might fit you better." He fumbled around in his drawers and pulled out a pair of white pyjamas with lots of different patches sewn onto them.

"What are these, Doitsu?" Italy asked, fingering the patches. They were in different shapes, obviously handmade.

"Memories," said Germany softly, smiling. "Prussia's worked on these for years. They represent events, people, battles."

Italy fingered them quietly, and then spoke.

"So, this is Prussia," he pointed to a star, "this is you," he pointed to a little beer next to a bigger one, "this is onii-chan," he pointed to a rose, "and this is me, right?" he finally pointed to a clump of spaghetti.

"Ja," said Germany, sitting down next to Italy. "This one's Canada," he said, pointing to a maple leaf made out of tons of tiny red hearts. "It took him ages, but he told me he's worth it. This one's the day he found me," he said fondly, pointing to a star cradling a tiny little star in its arms. "I couldn't even remember my name, so he called me Deutschland. He said it sounded brave, strong, a perfect country name. And this one…" he trailed off, his hand dusting over a square of black material. The patch was a black square, that was all. But it meant everything to Prussia.

"That was the day he collapsed," said Germany. "The day his country dissolved. He came home and told me that real men don't cry, but I could see that what he wanted to do more than anything was break down and cry on the floor. I slept with him that night, like we did when I was a kid, and whenever he woke up screaming I'd hug him before he would fall asleep again."

Germany was silent, hard-faced. That one patch brought back every memory. Italy watched him sympathetically, before standing up and pulling the trousers on, and the top over his head.

"Doitsu," said Italy slowly. "I'm… I'm still cold."

Germany was trying very, very hard to keep his patience, but it was getting hard.

"Well, what do you suggest?" he asked, trying hard not to get mad at the shivering Italian. "I've given you cocoa, we had a bath together, we danced, I dried your hair, and I got you pyjamas. What else can I do?"

Italy thought hard, and then went pink. "Uh, Doitsu…," he said nervously. "Would- could you…"

Germany stood up so that the Italian was standing right next to him, below him.

"Ja?"

"Could you kiss me?"

Germany hadn't been expecting that.

"What?"

"I'm sorry!" Italy squeaked. "It's just, whenever I was a little kid and I couldn't get to sleep, Miss Hungary would kiss me. And when I'm cold at home, I ask Romano to kiss me, because it makes me warm. He doesn't usually do it, but when he does, it's nice. You don't have to, I'm sorry!"

Germany smiled and leaned down to kiss Italy, cupping his face in his hands.

His lips were icy cold, and Germany moved his own to pass over some heat, trying hard to think of the action as necessary, to warm Italy up, and not anything more. But when Italy closed his eyes and kissed back, Germany found it impossible to not give in.

He pulled his lips away, but only to push Italy onto the bed and kiss him harder, slamming his lips against the smaller nations with immense force. Italy whined a little, before gluing his lips back to Germany's and sticking out a tongue, eager to go further. Germany opened his mouth, and their tongues began to fight for dominance.

Germany wasn't letting Italy win this fight though, and eventually the Italian gave in, and wound his legs around Germany's waist, pressing his cold body against his companion's warm one. Germany pulled his lips away, and slipped his hands under Italy's shirt, pulling it off and discarding it on the floor.

"Not fair," protested Italy. "You take yours off too."

Germany laughed, and pulled the tank top off his head, throwing it onto the floor. Italy's eyes widened and he reached out a hand to feel Germany's chest.

"Wow, Doitsu," he breathed, and Germany laughed and began to kiss down Italy's bare chest, soft, sweet kisses. Italy moaned in pure pleasure, until Germany reached the top of his pyjama bottoms. He looked up, meeting Italy's eyes, and the smaller nation nodded.

"Knock yourself out," he said, winking.

It was a long time before anyone got to sleep.

* * *

Germany woke up the next morning and tried to get up, but found he couldn't. He was being anchored down by something. He looked over to see Italy lying next to him, his arms around Germany's chest, his head nestled into the crook of Germany's neck. Germany sighed, and leaned down to kiss Italy's forehead. The Italian smiled, opened his beautiful amber eyes and looked up at the Aryan.

"Ludwig?" he asked, and Germany smiled at the sound of his name from those perfect lips.

"Ja?"

"I'm not cold anymore."

* * *

***POP***

**Spain: Huh?**

**Romano: Fuck. Rachel's dragged up into another one of her stories again.**

**Me: Hey guys! I just needed you here so I could ask people to review, despite the fact that they're probably majorly mad at me for never uploading anything!**

**Romano: Serves you right.**

**Me: *ignoring Romano* Like? Hate?**

**Romano: You do know that's fucking annoying, right?**

**Me and Spain: REVIEW!**


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